


No Quarter

by crimsonepitaph



Series: Soldiers Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: After suffering a serious injury, Jensen's road to recovery is hard, and complicated even further by a decision he makes.





	No Quarter

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note #1:** Title from the Led Zeppelin song.  
>  **Author's note #2:** This is a third timestamp (in chronological order) for the Soldiers verse, which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/786189). This one, more than the others, might not make much sense if you haven't read the verse first.  
>  **Author's note #3:** Finally, and most importantly, a big, ENORMOUS thank you to [borgmama1of5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borgmama1of5) for the beta. Her patience and care in editing the fragmented, jumbled and over-written stuff I send her is incredible.

_This is what some hack in Hollywood would imagine for a Russian embassy in a James Bond movie, Jensen thinks.  Long, tall hallways, white marble walls threaded with gold, statues every few feet on lush velvet-covered plinths. The chandeliers are enormous, low-hanging monstrosities that still manage to look ethereal._

_And the feeling._

_From another century. A museum._

_And like in the Bond movie, men in suits surrounded by men in full combat gear stride through the halls, shoes pounding on the intricately inlaid wooden floor. He hears the low voices arguing in different languages._

_His team is here to provide security for the signing of a treaty, against threats from extremists who want to derail peace._

_Aldis, Steve, him, and the new guy, Chau. Osric._

_Jensen has the luck of being partnered with the kid at the junction of the hallways outside the conference room._

_Out of the corner of his eye Jensen sees Chau’s fingers drumming on the side of his hip, impatient. He’s talking, and Jensen has to crush a smile, not sure that it would be the best response to the art history lecture Osric is giving._

_It’s the first time he’s heard the guy speak more than two syllables at a time. It’s a revelation._

_Jensen lets Osric’s commentary wash over him, strangely relaxing. He watches the two ends of the hallway, listens in his earpiece for any sign of trouble from his teammates._

_There shouldn’t be. The radicals had all been ‘collected.’ An innocuous word for being yanked out of bed, beaten, and thrown in jail if still breathing. But Jensen isn’t here to weigh in on politics. The U.S. is merely providing a neutral security team._

_However, when three guys with semi-automatics round the hallway corner to his right, Jensen reacts instinctively._

_He barks an order to Chau, drops into position and fires._

_He doesn’t miss. Neither does Osric._

_The staccato sound of gunfire echoes against the marble walls._

_More figures round the corner as Osric swears. Jensen doesn’t waste his breath, he’s already hearing the curses from Aldis and Steve in his earbug. But he would like to—he and Chau have their backs to the conference room door, there’s little more they can do now._

_There’s a guy right in front of him, fingers pressing on the trigger._

_There’s just time enough for Jensen to realize what's happening._

_Strangely, what comes to mind is: it shouldn’t be here. And not like this._

_Three. Four. A sledgehammer hits his chest. He keeps firing even as he’s knocked sideways. Then a burning under his arm._

_The world tilts, loudness mutes unnaturally. Time stretches._

_Jensen and his attacker go down in tandem, a weirdly intimate dance. He studies the floor, now marred with threads of crimson liquid creeping into the gaps. He tries to push himself over. His body mutinies, refuses to follow orders._

_There’s a face in front of him, saying his name, but It’s all cut and cropped in irregular shapes. His brain can’t put the puzzle pieces together. He sees lips moving and sound explodes over him._

_“…sen’s down!...god-damn medic!..search team…fucked up…inside job…stop the bleeding…”_

_Someone moves his arm._

_Darkness renders everything meaningless._

 

~

 

Jensen wakes up slowly, consciousness diffused, reality too bright. He closes his eyes again, breathes and searches for an anchor to hang onto in the sea of muddled thoughts.

Pain.

That’s all he finds.

"Jensen."

Jared's voice, question and certainty together in embers.

Jensen doesn't have words, or even thoughts enough of his own to respond. They're all black and red shards of pain that force coherence to the edges of his mind. 

He struggles.

The fight is quickly lost; colors of the world escape through his fingertips, drift away from his mind.

 

~

 

When Jensen comes to again, it's with a start. His eyes fly open to find a world with clearer edges, and a blonde head slumped over his left hand.

It takes several seconds until his heartbeat slows to normal, seconds where the only thing he is aware of is the pounding, irrevocable sign that __he's alive__. 

" _Fuck._ "

The embassy.

The trigger-happy extremists.

Osric.

He remembers.

"Jensen." Movement at his side. A call to the here and now.

"Yeah,” Jensen whispers. Enough to answer, to be present. Then stronger. “I’m here."

Almost.

The response is pressure on his hand.

“The…mission,” he rasps, sounds aligning with effort, throat filled with gravel.

“Fine. No casualties.” The voice— _Jared_ —answers. “Not on our side, at least.”

Jensen has to wait for his brain to register the words.

It doesn’t seem possible. He and Osric—they were the last barrier. If outer security had been breached—

Jared is clearly following his thoughts. “You’ll have to talk to Colonel Morgan for details, but what Aldis told me, the assholes who used you for target practice were the only ones, and they were already there. Waiting.”

But that means—

“Crisis averted, Jen,” Jared breaks into the thought’s beginning. ”You’re here.”

Repetition of Jensen’s own words.

“With me.”

And slowly, so slowly it might take seconds or eternities, Jensen starts to believe. In here, in now, in _this_.

He looks at Jared, takes in the circles under his eyes contrasting with the relief swimming in his smile. Jared’s hand is shaking ever so slightly against Jensen's palm.

Jared’s never lied to him. He wouldn’t about this.  
   
So no high-ranking dignitary killed. Osric, Steve, and Aldis safe. Mission accomplished.  
  
He’ll have time to untangle the rest of it.  
  
The corners of Jensen’s mouth curl upward of their own accord, the reaction of being close to Jared.  
  
Shit, he's missed this.  
  
Well, not the hospitals, the pain or the dramatics. But Jared. Him. The string that ties him to reality, to the world that makes him—happy.  
  
Going down, that’s the last thing he’d thought: that it wasn’t fair. He had so much more to share with this man.  
  
So Jensen goddamn beams at Jared, warmth spreading through him slowly, supplanting the physical pain. The realization that he’s really here, memories re-etching themselves under his skin.  
  
Of course the next thing Jared says, keeping in line with his fuck-the-universe-and-any-laws-that-govern-it attitude is, "I knew you'd wake up."  
  
Yes. Because Jared wills things into existence with zero care for logic and rational thinking.

"How bad?" Jensen asks, voice cracking from disuse.

He asks. But he mostly guesses.

Jared’s hand on his tightens. “You’ve been in a medically induced coma for nine days. Three bullets, two caught in your vest. The one that did the damage caught you under your arm where the vest couldn’t cover. Broke some ribs, pierced a lung, got some major blood vessels.” Jared’s face becomes unreadable. “Missed your heart by inches.” A pause. “You also have a graze on your shoulder, and they think it was a ricochet  got you by the left knee."

So that’s why his chest feels like a Mack truck with flaming wheels has been samba dancing on it.

Jared’s silence after his recitation deafens Jensen.

"Fuck me. What’s the prognosis?"

"Well, they managed to repair all the damage…The field medic did a helluva job, kept you from bleeding out. It was…” Jared’s eyes become too bright, emotion in mosaic-colored shards of glass, tawny and green.  “It was touch and go for a bit, but the doc said with rehab you should be good.”

Because Jensen’s an asshole who can’t bear the tinge of desperation in Jared’s voice, he starts laughing. It hurts, but it doesn’t stop him.

“Custom made, Jay. Custom made. Bullet-resistant.”

From the grip on Jensen’s hand, Jared doesn’t find it as funny.  

But then, he smiles. Warily, gaze lost. But Jared gives a shot at playing along. “That the new Special Forces motto, Ackles?”

“Join us for a shit ton of near-death experiences…and cookies.”

That does get a small laugh out of Jared—joined by a deeper chuckle that surprises both of them.

Colonel Morgan is standing in the doorway.

“Colonel,” Jared says, and he starts to get up, though clearly reluctant to lose physical contact with Jensen.

“At ease, Padalecki.” He nods. “Ackles.”

Jensen tries to shrug off the abrupt exhaustion that hits him. It’s less the waking up from the coma thing and more the trepidation for the conversation the colonel brings. The debrief…and Jensen suddenly realizes there’s something else.  

“You know they don’t offer frequent flier miles here for either the patient or his visitor,” Morgan says in a tone that belies the joke.

“You’re not kicking me out, sir?”

 There’s an edge to Jared’s last word.

“I don’t think he’d want tomorrow’s headline to read ‘Decorated sergeant goes crazy, kills twenty', Jared.”

The Colonel remains impassive.

“More like he was already crazy. So, no, I ‘m not here to kick you out. We don’t want to highlight the US military’s questionable choices.”

It wouldn’t be funny to anyone who took it seriously. But Jensen and Jared know this particular brand of humor, brotherhood wrapped in insults and roughhousing.

“Heartwarming support, boss,” Jared replies, laughing.

Jared forgets, Morgan isn’t his boss, not anymore, not really. Morgan’s job is taking care of Alpha and Bravo teams, and Jared…well, Jared’s been given a batch of new kids for training.  Half because the higher-ups have zero idea about what to do when supersoldier can’t go on missions anymore, and half because Morgan understood that Jared would have developed a full body twitch if he couldn’t introduce himself with _Sergeant Padalecki_.

“Just wanted to reassure myself the nine lives you two share haven’t run out on us,” Morgan’s voice cuts through Jensen’s thoughts.

The colonel’s moved to stand next to Jared’s chair.

“No chance. We’re steel,” Jared’s boasting, but neither Jensen nor Morgan responds.

Jensen exchanges glances with the colonel.

He’s never seen that look on Morgan’s face in all the years he’s known the man. Still. It feels like the colonel is reading Jensen’s mind, plucking out the half-formed thought Jensen had only realized himself moments before.

“We’ll talk later, Ackles.”

With another nod, Morgan leaves the room.

 _Later_. They’ll talk later about it.

Good.

Right now, Jensen doesn’t feel up to telling Jared he’s quitting Alpha team.

 

~

 

The next time Jensen rejoins the land of the living he’s feeling more alert, stronger, like he won’t pass out if he dares raise his head more than one inch.

Jared isn’t there.  He’s probably off  traumatizing some poor kids in training drills. To some extent, for Jensen, it’s a relief.

If Jared isn’t here, Jensen can think.

He can run things through his head without emotion attached to it, with the practiced decision-making skills that make him the soldier that he is. If Jared were here…well, the fucking poets are wrong when they say it’s the heart or the stomach doing cartwheels when you’re in love—nope, it’s Jensen’s thoughts bouncing around his skull, parading with bright pink heart-shaped signs that distract him.

Doctor Singer comes in, does a thorough exam.

He goes into detail about what shape he was in when he showed up, how much he’s improved, and what he can expect next. The upshot is no lasting damage.

Breathing exercises. Rebuild lung capacity. Two to three months of physical therapy. Rebuild his strength, stamina, reflexes. The doctor refrains from telling Jensen that he’s lucky, only keeps to the facts and clear objectives.

Still, Jensen hears it.

Singer calls in a nurse to— _glory hallelujah_ —remove the catheter. Only that means he then has to sit the hell up, stand the fuck up, and shuffle to the goddamn bathroom, leaning on the poor five-foot-tall nurse to keep from collapsing as his body violently objects to the abuse  of having to move traumatized nerves and muscles.

Singer looks at Jensen, and brings up pain medication after that fiasco.

“No need to be a martyr. It’s gonna hurt like hell, son.”

Right.

He knows. Not the first time he’s doing this, recovering after an injury.

But he shakes his head. He’s taking a page out of Jared’s “how to piss off people and do yourself damage in the process for dummies” book, but he doesn’t really care.

There are conversations to be had. Important ones. And he doesn’t want to be of unclear mind for that.  

His arguments don’t appear to impress the doctor, who declares he’s dealing with patient 2063, not a name with animpressive military record attached to it. In an effort to maintain at least a shred of Jensen’s illusion of authority, he offers the option of a painkiller pump.

When Jensen refuses the temptation of self-medicating, all the gray-haired man says is, “I’ll leave the order on file, just tell the nurse if you change your mind.”

And he leaves.

Right. Outstanding.

Jensen’s left to ponder his state. Stitched together, hurting, but good as new eventually.

Huh.

He can’t ignore the irony of being shot point blank and still qualifying to return to duty as part of an elite team. Unlike Jared, who, because of a few fucking fingers that don’t bend like they’re supposed to, had to give up his way of life. Because that’s what it is—what it was—for Jared. Not a job.  A whole identity.  

So how can he tell Jared he’s done?

That he’s tired, that he’s done with living on the brink? That he found his life not in the field, but next to Jared, that it’s where he wants to be?

He anticipates Jared’s reaction. He knows the idiot will feel responsible. He’ll think Jensen’s quitting out of some sort of worry over him.

And Jensen is.

It’s worry that’s never left him after finding Jared in that cell, dirty, bloody, broken, barely breathing. Worry that Jared will do something crazy without regard for the consequences if Jensen’s not there.

But there’s something more.

The dawning realization that he’s putting strangers’ lives before the man he cares about most.

That he’s going through the same motions. Order, follow it. And nothing at the end of it but pain and suffering.

The jumbled mess of thoughts distressing him even without Jared’s proximity irritates Jensen, because if there ever was something that defined him, it was his determination to put things in perspective, his ability to find clarity even in the direst of circumstances.

But now Jensen feels stuck, uneasiness spreading from his chest to his whole body.  He wants to be anywhere but here, staring at the blank walls, and, occasionally, the tiled ceiling.

It’s a blessing when the nurse comes again, takes a look at him, and shoots a syringe of something into his IV.

He drifts into a fitful sleep, dreaming nightmares that aren’t his.

 

~

 

Jensen’s life proceeds uneasily, hours passing slowly in a haze of exercise, restless sleep, and visits.

He’s honestly not sure whether those last are helping.

Morgan comes by again after the doctor finalizes his prognosis. He does a short debrief, confirming Jensen’s suspicions. Inside job, a damn good one to reach as far in as it did. Seven extremists, two local guards killed. Aldis came out with an unpleasant, but not life-threatening, injury to his hip.

Steve and Aldis had figured out just in time what was happening.

After the discussion of the mission, Morgan sits, eyes intent on Jensen’s face, waiting.

Jensen takes in as deep a breath as he can—getting better at it from the therapy—and says it.

He wants out.

Barely normal tone, but still too loud in his ears.

Morgan remains silent.

So Jensen continues with his speech. Jensen says this _quitting_ —how the hell can that one word feel like it rips a part of him with it —isn’t new, decided impulsively. He confesses what he hadn’t even admitted to himself until now—It’s been building for months. He’s been trying to make it work. But it isn’t what he wants anymore.

Morgan continues to sit patiently.

“I see.”

And Jensen wants to take it back. To never have said it. It would be so much easier. No change needed. All things continuing to run smoothly, falling into some fucked up semblance of routine. The team. Himself. Forward. And Jared, on the sides.

But he can’t feel it any longer.

Too many pieces of himself were left out in the field.

Empty shells, empty men, familiar figures that taunt him. Jensen doesn’t want it.  

“Are you sure?” Morgan finally asks.

Jensen just nods, even though he isn’t.

He pushes himself extra hard in PT after that. He needs it, the twisted semblance of control he feels in the repetitive movement, in the pain that comes with it.

He doesn’t feel guilty asking the nurse for pain medication when he’s back in bed. He lets the haze overtake him completely, thoughts dissipating in an indiscernible feeling of melancholy that follow into his dreams.

 

~

 

Other times, having visitors is painless.

The time he wakes up to Aldis munching on pretzels, Steve talking not-so-quietly on the phone, and Osric staring at the ceiling, it’s not quite what he envisions for an ideal morning—those involve much more naked Jared—but he’s thankful for the company.

The jokes are familiar. The laughter is almost real.

And underneath, there is nothing that needs to be said, because with one look the unit camaraderie kicks in.

It’s relaxing.

Aldis runs commentary on a baseball game he finds on the tiny hospital TV. Jensen is content to just listen.

Aldis doesn’t even mention his own injury.

Time, passing too fast, too slowly.

Osric balances the plastic hospital chair on its back legs with his feet on the edge of Jensen’s bed, contributing infrequent—and very random—comments to the proceedings. The few months on Alpha team haven’t given Jensen a handle on him yet.

But Steve—Steve’s watching Jensen. In that way of his…gaze searching, unblinking, challenging him. Features form indefinite emotions, unreadable. He could be considering any of a million things—or he could guess what Jensen’s thinking. _Quitting._

But Steve doesn’t say anything directly to Jensen.

Like everything with them, this is a fractured version of their past that only reminds them of all the people that are missing.

 

~

 

In between visitors, Jensen slowly redefines himself as an actual human being.

He rejects the status of glorified hospital decoration and actually performs more difficult tasks than eating the green and red Jell-O that keeps appearing in front of him.

The first time he uses the treadmill he feels the need to punch something. He doesn’t, and he’s sure the nurse who helps Jensen appreciated it.

It hurts. Bad, then less, then bearable.

A dull, disquieting ache that envelops all of Jensen’s muscles, an exhaustion that he doesn’t want to admit.

He walks.

He enjoys the freedom that roaming the hospital halls means when they untether him from the IV pole, the trusted shadow initially following him.

He doesn’t think about anything, just goes day to day, wipes everything else off his mind, pushes all emotion underneath a determination to get stronger, do what is required of him.

Jared’s there.

In uniform, in civvies, late night, noon, early morning, watching in the first days as Jensen’s weakened body gives up after seconds in a vertical position, rewarding Jensen with a kiss after a solo lap of the floor, making Jensen eat, worrying, smiling, talking, drumming his fingers on the bed railing. Hours where Jared is the one who sleeps, head resting on the edge of Jensen’s bed, soft hair under Jensen’s fingertips; seconds where Jared’s head appears in the doorway for an exaggerated, blown kiss.

Reality moves stubbornly in its rhythm, returns to routine, like always after catastrophe.

And even though he’s center of attention, all spotlights on him - Jensen feels left out of it.

 

~

 

“You all right?”

Jensen doesn’t really get why Jared asks. He knows the answer to this.

“I’m fine. And I would be better if you were not following me,” he answers testily.

He’s walking, for God’s sake. Daily exercise. It’s not like he’s disarming a bomb, no need for the hovering. Jensen doesn’t know why he’s on edge today, he just…is.

“I like looking at the hospital walls. They’re…interesting.”

They’re stark white, thin cracks in the old paint job, mind-numbingly nondescript.

“It pains me, Padalecki, that you have given up all effort at lying credibly.”

“Nope, saving that for the kids.”

“What—” Jensen makes a sudden turn, disoriented.

Jared laughs at his reaction. “My trainees. They’re all babies. I hope to god I was never that stupid.”

And, because why not add to the embarrassment of parading around in a thin scrubs in the middle of uniformed medical personnel—Jensen finally loses balance after the sudden twist, awkwardly meets arms that instinctively reach for him. He lands at eye level with a sweaty neck, hands instinctively grabbing for the closest solid surface in front of him…Jared’s angled hips.

Jensen is clearly feeling better, because the second his fingers come into contact with the rough material of Jared’s jeans, his brain short-circuits. A wave of heat crawls along his chest, down his spine, straight to his dick.

And Jared—the asshole—isn’t helping.

He stands there, frozen, doesn’t lift a finger to help Jensen, just… _breathes._ Inhales Jensen’s scent audibly, and Jensen briefly wonders what screws got loosened in Jared’s brain while he’s been watching Jensen convalesce so graciously. Because this is not a _thing,_ they’ve never done this.

Jared’s hands ball into fists at his sides, hard, clenched so hard his knuckles turn white.  

The wall burns down, flames engulfing, taunting with memory. Lying together on the kitchen floor, following traces of old injuries, touching miles of tanned skin.

This isn’t this.

This is marred, new ink, ridged, ugly, angry red skin. Past folds into present mercilessly, granting them no intimacy.

The space between them is too small. There’s nothing hidden. All they have between them now is their scars.  

The only part that they don’t know about each other inside out.

Jensen made the first move once upon a time. The first real one.

It’s Jared’s turn this time.

Jensen waits.

The heat dissolves into warmth, into Jared’s scent—cigar smoke and sweat.

It’s slow, like nothing has been between them. It’s soft, and it hurts like never before.

Jared’s shaking fingers find his cheeks, and it feels awkward, Jensen feels naked—it feels like this shouldn’t be, such a moment shouldn’t exist. Then those fingers travel towards the nape of his neck, slowly, all the while Jared’s laser gaze holds his. Jared’s palms come to rest on Jensen’s jaw, the simple touch causing shivers, making him want to close his eyes, to sink into the growing feeling.

But he keeps his eyes open. He watches Jared.

It’s infinite.

The moment stretches, slow, antidote to the time they’ve spent apart, catalyst for all they feel.

When Jared presses his lips to Jensen’s, it’s an afterthought. There’s nothing more Jensen needs. He’d already gotten it.

And exactly because of it, Jensen gives in fully.

He lets Jared lead him to his room, time outside himself, world switching from clear and distinct to hazy. He lies down on the bed, and Jared sets himself beside Jensen, snakes hands around Jensen’s waist and pulls them together.

It’s too much. But Jensen doesn’t have the energy—or the desire—to resist.

It’s exactly what he craved ever since…

But Jensen doesn’t chase the thought.

There’s no place for memories.

Not when all aligns to make the present into everything Jensen never dared hope it would be.

Jensen is pressed to Jared’s side, his right hand arching around to rest on Jensen’s lower back. Jared’s other hand is folded under his own head. Jensen’s hands find Jared’s waist, a poor substitute for what they really crave, to feel the skin underneath the t-shirt and jeans.

Sleep doesn’t come, but the silence that envelops the room is equal to peace.

 

~

 

They remain unmoving, a, fixed point around which the sky in the room’s small window changes from cornflower blue to orange and honey, the sunset painting color trails on Jared’s face, softening it, till the square turns mauve and lilac, dark blue, navy.

“So, tell me about your trainees?”

Threads of conversation lost, returning to Jensen’s mind.

Jared takes time to answer, and when he does, his voice is low, gentle, trying to melt into the surroundings.

“Most of them know what they’re getting into. They’re focused, hard-working, they listen. But Ford and Everett…Jesus fuck. They’re something else. Like they’re in summer camp, not training for war.”

“...And?”

“And I don’t know how to get through to them.”

Jensen smiles in the crook of Jared’s neck. “I’d have thought the thousand push-ups you make ‘em do every day would have convinced them.”

“Yeah, apparently not,” Jared replies with a short laugh. His faces closes up. “But seeing the other getting a bullet will.”

It’s zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, what Jensen thought would be light conversation turning into serious, life-and-death, self-appointed-responsibility-for-everything fueling the programm for the evening.

“Jared—”

Jared meets his gaze.

There’s nothing to be said.

Until the big, bright red neon sign looming at the back of Jensen’s mind pushes the words out.

There was never going to be the right moment.

So Jensen decides it’s now.

“I’m not going back.”

Jensen is surprised at how easily the words escape, ready to be free. But they bring with them fear, stuck somewhere in Jensen’s chest, a tingling sensation in his palms.

Not grasping, Jared asks, “Back where?”

“To the team.”

It takes a few seconds.

It’s not disappointment that fills Jensen when Jared gets up, extricating limbs, putting as much distance as he can between Jensen and himself. It’s relief.

He expected it.

Jared paces the tiny hospital room, crossing the few feet between the bed and the wall a handful of times, until he stops and leans against it, unsure, six-foot-four inches of muscle hunching inward.

“Why?”

It’s all he asks. Controlled anger, confused questioning underneath it.

But just because Jensen expected a negative reaction, doesn’t mean he thinks Jared has a right to question him. Not like this. Accusing.

“Because I’m done, Jared. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Even to Jensen, that sounds like the answer of a child kicking his feet on the floor, protesting a grown-up’s rules. But that’s how he feels.

“You’re going to have to explain that to me, Jensen,” Jared says, slowly.

He knows Jared is fighting his own battles. But Jensen isn’t sure Jared can win.

He takes a deep breath.

“I want out. I can’t do the job anymore. Not like I should. And maybe I don’t even want to. I don’t know. But the thing is, I’d rather be _here_. ”

“Why?”

Instant reaction. Does Jared really not know the answer to that question?

“I want to be with you.” There. He’s said it.

Jared’s eyes go wide, incredulous. “So this is my fault?”

“It’s nobody’s _fault.”_

Because it isn’t.

“It’s my decision. For a shitload of reasons. Like you, yeah. The fact that I’m not particularly keen in getting new lead body accessories every week. But maybe it’s just that I don’t want to end up like my brother. Or Chad. Or Chris. Leaving people behind, and doing it for some misguided loyalty.”

“The team.”

Jared’s tone is even, but Jensen chooses his next words carefully. “It’s not the same.”

“Really?” Jared says, and there’s a brutal undertone to the way Jared says the word.

Jensen’s never heard it, not directed at him.

 “Since Chris—since _you_ …it’s not the same. And I’m not talking numbers, or dynamic. Back then, from the start, I felt like the team was my family. Fucked up, crazy, dysfunctional, but _family_. But it’s not anymore. It’s just the job. Steve barely talks to me. The new guy’s on another planet half the time, he stares at points on the fucking walls without blinking. And it’s not just now, or on missions—” Jensen anticipates the next argument Jared will bring, “it’s—do you even remember when we got together last time? Besides seeing each other at funerals and in hospitals?”

The obligation out of the fear that the empty gets deeper.

No more graves, no more widows.

There can’t be.

Paper planes and smoke, evaporating.

Memories.

That’s all that’s left. Broken pieces.

“It’s not goddamn kindergarten, Jensen. Nobody cares about play dates and socializing.”

Untrue.

Jared had, at some point.

But Chad, Chris, even Jensen himself—they taught Jared that it ends in blood and ruins of feeling.

Jensen wants to say something. Argue. Remind him.

But they’re going off track. This isn’t the reason. This isn’t what they’re supposed to be talking about. Not really. This is adjacent, consequences that would be nothing without the action at the bottom of it.

“Look, Jay,” Jensen cuts off any continuation, ignoring the flares of Jared’s temper that paint his features distorted, ugly. “What it boils down to, is—I want something different. There’s a bucket with all the awful shit I can handle before going cuckoo crazy, and I’m calling it before it starts overflowing.”

Compartmentalizing.

He can do it. He’s done it for so many years. Shelves, with boxes full of nightmares, under lock and key.

But there’s no space anymore. Not an inch. Only out in the open, in the day-to-day thoughts left unguarded despite a decade of practice.

Jared should get it.

But what he says instead is, “That’s what we sign up for, Ackles. The awful shit. There’s no one else that can do it.”

His voice is raised, eyes reflecting the glare of the harsh fluorescent light. Strength in fury. It’s who Jared’s always been.

Jensen laughs mirthlessly. “No argument like arrogance and entitlement.”

“How can you—-” Jared inhales, stops whatever words he wanted to continue with. He tries for a level tone, failing miserably. “You’re talking about the service to our country. The oath, Jensen! You don’t abandon it so lightly!”

Fuck rationality.

“ _Lightly_? _!_ You fucking asshole. What do you think I’ve been doing this past year? Hopping on one foot and dancing? I’ve been going on missions, I’ve been doing my job even when it was the last thing I wanted to be doing!”

“That’s the job, Jensen! Do it until you can’t. Or they don’t let you. But never give up _voluntarily_.”

 _Until you can’t. Until you’re too injured_ , Jared means. And Jensen sees what Jared is looking at—someone willing to let go of what was taken away from Jared.

But his need for Jared to understand overrides the flash of insight. 

“You would think like that. But there are more ways than yours to look at it.”

Jared shakes his head.

Jared’s a yeller. He’s heat. Intense, but superficial, lightning flares over emotions that run deep.

This is different.

 “You’re saying you’re a quitter, a—”

_Coward._

But Jared’s the one who doesn’t have the courage to voice the accusation in its entirety.

“That’s not—” Jensen starts, trying to be calm, to be rational despite the anger those words raise in him. But it’s hard. All the things he hasn’t said want to get out, want to get screamed at Jared, because he thought—he truly believed, unequivocally, that Jared loved him—all, everything, beyond anything, even this.

Jensen holds on for dear life to the last strands of calm, of this being in some way constructive.

“Am I a coward for not wanting to come home to you in a bodybag? Is that what you want?”

It’s a fight, not only the two of them against each other, but each with their own misgivings.

“My head isn’t in the right place for this job anymore, Jared. When I’m on a mission…my body knows what to do. But part of my mind is still here. It’s…I’m distracted, not fully committed, and that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Jared shakes his head stubbornly.

“I don’t want you to give up something for me.”

It’s quiet— _quieter_ —but still reeks of resentment, of walls rebuilt. It hurts more, now that that they know what exists behind the barricades; it cuts deeper, through all the things they feel about each other, because this is a fundamental piece of their identities.

It’s _them_ , it’s _trying_ , it’s love that cracks in jagged pieces that don’t fit.

“It’s not _for_ you, Jared.”

“Then because of me.”

That’s trickier. But it isn’t a single thing. It’s Jensen, making a decision he knows is right for him.

He doesn’t know how to put it into words, at least ones that Jared would understand, would make him look through his insecurities and see the real meaning. So Jensen stays silent.

It’s not the right thing to do.

Jared deserves more.

But Jensen simply has no energy left. Mentally, physically.

“Jay—” Jensen starts, not really sure with what to continue. “It’s not that simple.”

Jared waits for more. When it doesn’t come, he simply nods. “I think it is.”

Jared saves Jensen the effort of protesting, pinning Jensen with a final look—blazing, unyielding—then turning and walking out the door. No good-bye, just —gone.

Jensen watches as Jared disappears, moment not really lending itself to belief.

How can Jared just—

 _Shit_.

Jensen lets his head fall on the strangely uncomfortable pillow.

His own anger simmers, thoughts racing, stumbling over shreds of self-control torn to bits.

He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse than he expected.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. The mess of thoughts isn’t going away. Things that he thought he was sure about, things that Jared’s words shook loose, the self-doubt rearing its claws, gnawing at him—they twirl, they twist, chase away any semblance of peace.

Is he really abandoning his duty?

Is he a coward for saying _no more_ , _I want to come out alive from it?_ For letting other people make the sacrifice instead of him?

Jensen doesn’t know anymore.

He wonders if he ever did.

He gets up.

The hallways are almost tranquil. He starts his walking routine again.

Jensen can almost convince himself that the pain he’s feeling isn’t his.

 

~

 

It isn’t easier, telling the team.

The full audience: Aldis, Chau. _Steve._

The team leader watches him, standing, body like a taut string.

“Really?” Steve says when Jensen finishes talking. His voice fissures, leaving behind the calm nuances it usually had. “After all of it? That’s what you do? You _quit_?”

Jensen tells himself it’s Steve’s latent anger directed at Jared and him. For Chris. Maybe for Chad. For all the decisions they made without asking. For the ones they forced on the team.

Jensen sees a lot of things, but, at some point he has to take the blow for what it is.

“Save it, Steve. Got the lecture already from Padalecki.”

“At least he had the decency to stop wallowing in his own shit for once, tell it like it is.”

Jensen focuses on the exercises given to him.

Breathing.

 _One._

_Two._

_Th_ —

It doesn’t really help him. Maybe because he’s supposed to cough after each count. Or maybe because the reaction Steve’s words elicit is too strong in intensity.

“I suggest you stop right there,” Jensen says, holding Steve’s gaze, overriding the instinct to get a punch in. He’s not convinced he has enough strength for it to mean something, but he’s riding the surge of adrenaline Steve’s answer brought with it.

And Steve gets it.

The line, and where it is.

He picks up the jacket thrown over the edge of the bed, throws a last look at Jensen, fierce and unforgiving, and leaves.

Jensen briefly wonders if dramatic exits are a thing taught to team leaders specifically.

After staring at the door banging closed for a second time too soon not to shake Jensen’s belief he’s doing the right thing, he turns around.

Right.

Still more people.

He forgot about Osric and Aldis. They haven’t said anything.

Osric’s studying his own hands meticulously. Aldis has found a point on the crumpled white sheets and is staring it into non-existence.

Jensen tries to use the silence to collect himself, to convince the side of him that wanted to punch Steve that violence, _anger_  isn’t the answer to this.

No dice. Stubbornness is a trait not particular to just one member of the team.

But Aldis—still not looking at him—manages to break through Jensen’s defensiveness.

“I think I get it,” he says, voice serious, commanding attention because it so rarely is. “My girl and I, we’re having a kid. And it’s not just one time I’ve asked myself, with bullets flying at me, if I shouldn’t be home, getting ice cream and picking cribs and hating the _monroe bisque_  she painted the room for the kid.”

The fight goes out of Jensen as suddenly as it had risen.

“ _Monroe_... what? What the hell is that?”

There’s a small laugh. “Beige.”

Jensen grins.

“And?”

Aldis raises his head, meets Jensen’s gaze, smiles unfamiliarly.

“I’m still deciding.”

Jensen answers with his own smile; he hadn’t known. It’s confirmation of what he and Jared had been arguing.

Not a unit. Disparate, somehow still functioning parts of a machine, but no longer effectively.

“What I don’t get is,” Hodge says, frown marring his features, “why Jared’s against it.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

Jared had reacted exactly how Jensen had imagined he would. Duty. Nothing before it.

“Well, word is he ain’t exactly…stable when we’re gone,” Aldis replies, phrasing it carefully. It’s either his unbroken loyalty to Jared, or the cautiousness Jensen’s earlier outburst had instilled in him that’s making him doing it.

Jensen still doesn’t get it..

“Look, don’t go telling him I told you. But before this last mission, we found out Al was pregnant…and she was having a really rough go of it. Around-the-clock porcelain throne-worshiping, dehydration, almost fainting —the whole glorious shebang, morning sickness that lasted 24/7. The phone rang, and orders came in. I had to leave, and so I did the only thing that kept me from going out of my mind with worry.”

“You called Jay,” Jensen fills in, understanding.

Aldis nods. “Yeah. He looked after her for the weeks we were out. Brought her meds, made sure she didn’t drown in her own vomit, that kind of thing.”

It never ceases to amaze Jensen how unfiltered Hodge is.

“But seemed like peanut reigned it in, and I came home to her smiling like crazy. So in five more months…anyway. That’s another story.” He shakes his head imperceptibly. “What I want to say is that Jared—he slept at the house the whole time. And Al…well, she wasn’t the only one who didn’t get a lot of shut eye while we were gone.”

Jensen doesn’t know how to tell Aldis that Jared having trouble sleeping isn’t exactly news to him. But Aldis must guess from the look on Jensen’s face.

“It isn’t that he didn’t sleep, Jensen.  It’s that he woke up shouting your name when he did.”

Jensen stares at Aldis.

It can’t be.

Yeah, Jared doesn’t exactly sleep. Neither of them do, not like normal people. The ever-present vigilance that the possibility of being called in brings, sometimes the nightmares, but this—

Jared hadn’t told him.

“He said nothing to me,” Jensen strings out, a bit lost, hitchhiker in a conversation he thought he was driving.

“Dude—we are talking about the guy that basically summarized days of torture it as _eh, been through worse shit?”_

Aldis has a point.

But Jensen doesn’t have time to say anything, revel in the discovery.

Chau activates, single-word command on screen.

“Torture?”

“Broken fingers, hanging from the ceiling, I think there was some waterboarding,” Hodge answers, looking to Jensen to confirm it, “but don’t worry, kid, nine times out of ten, there ain’t no need for it.”

Osric blinks. “Nine…”

“Well, _eight_. Some people _really_   don’t know how to welcome their guests properly.”

Jensen watches Chau’s features as he struggles to comprehend what he just heard.

It’s funny, because Osric was a field engineer before this. Which meant he had all the training Jensen had, all the physical qualifications, and all the mock-up drills, but significantly less experience of the real thing. Which also meant Morgan went out on a limb putting him in the team, a limb they supported fully, as they were all concerningly close to old-man territory when it came to the new-age digital shit they were finding now in their outings.

So Aldis makes a habit out of scaring Osric.

But the joke’s on him. Chau returns to position as soon as he scans Hodge’s face. He doesn’t say anything more—just finds a point on the white wall somewhere south of the TV and starts processing.

Jensen throws Hodge a disapproving look. Half-heartedly. His mind is still reeling from the earlier, Jared-related revelation. Because for the life of him, Jensen can’t understand what his teammate just told him.

He gets the feeling. He gets not telling.

But, under the circumstances, not the reaction he got from Jared.

The one thing that made sense, out the window, and his cool down with it.

Jensen takes a breath. Realizes almost immediately he needs some space.

He can’t do this with an audience.

The few steps to the bathroom take something out of him—something he thought he’d figured out. Confusion engulfs him.

Anger.

Growing, replacing everything.

He slams the door and stops, hands on the sink, breathing heavily.

The mirror reminds Jensen. Here. _Him._

Jared—right now, Jensen can’t think of him. His reaction, the anger, their relationship—it needs to be something outside of him. Something he can put aside so his mind can clear. To find his balance, more than two seconds of it.

But it— _he_ —isn’t.

Jared could never be.

That’s why it hurts so much when he dares think about it. When he wants to believe that this is just a valley in their relationship, and not a desert, a void neither of them can fill.

Jensen stays there, still for a few more minutes, chest burning.

He yells at Hodge he’s fine when the banging on the door hurts his ears.

He is.

Isn’t he?

 

~

 

Strangely, Osric comes back a couple days later. Catches Jensen on the treadmill.

Which is fine, and really doesn’t make Jensen embarrassed to be breathing like he’s climbed a mountain in the half hour he’s doing it.

Not at all. _Steel_. Well, soon to be.

Osric sticks around for a couple of hours, but aside from a _hello_ at the beginning, he’s content to balance his chair in the same position as before and play on his cell, oblivious to his surroundings except when he blurts out random observations from his phone screen, like “The lava from Mt. Kilauea just created 555 more acres of the Big Island in Hawaii.”

Jensen spends five minutes of the two hours racking his brain for appropriate responses to this, and the rest steadily going stir crazy.

He has books, he has a TV, supposedly company, even if it’s strange—but he doesn’t want anything.

Not even to go outside, really. PT took too much out of him.

Just—

Something other than this waiting.

An ending.

Four days, and _nothing_. Jared dropped out of the daily visit routine unceremoniously, left nothing behind to remind Jensen of how sure he was that what they have is invincible.

He exchanges a series of messages with Hodge, asking when Chau needs to be fed and hydrated.

Because he’s a good man, Aldis tells him that Jared’s fine. Ignoring everything that moves besides the trainees he’s paid to torture, but fine, not  three sheets to the wind at the _Devil’s Own_  and introducing his fist to everyone in the vicinity.

Jensen’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with that information. Be pleased that Jared is behaving maturely…or be upset that Jared can do just fine without him.

He ends up doing neither, just depositing the new feeling in an old box, labeled under _reasons why my partner makes all my brain cells explode._ This one isn’t under key—after all, with how much fighting they’re doing lately, some things need to be handy.

 

~

 

The only thing that assuages the feeling is Colonel Morgan’s visit.

“I feel like the president or something,” Jensen says as soon as Morgan enters, surprised at seeing him again in this setting.

“Ain’t an official visit, Ackles,” he answers.

“So you just came to see my face?”

“Everyone says it’s too pretty to miss.”

At that, Jensen lets his features slide into a grin. Genuine. Relaxed. Trusting.

“Heard you told him,” Morgan breaks through without preamble, sitting in the white plastic chair that Jared had occupied for hours on end last week.

“I did.”

There are a few moments of silence. Jensen waits for something more, but Morgan just looks at him. Carefully, he reaches in his pocket, gets something white, and he throws it at Jensen. Who briefly wonders if this is some kind of new training exercise before he realizes it’s a small piece of paper that he’s now got in his right fist.

“What’s this?”

“Perspective.”

Jensen unfolds the paper with care—maybe the colonel’s taken the off-beaten path and they’re nuclear codes or something—but he’s confused at what he’s reading.

Eight lines, each with a number on it. _92, 11, 24, 6, 3, 28, 15, 2, 3._

Code?

 “As long as I’ve been doing this job, I’ve had 92 soldiers under my command,” Morgan interrupts his line of thinking.”11 currently in active duty. 24 dead. 6 living somewhere in the goddamn mountains with the yeti. 3 are in the loony bin. 28 have gone private. Mercenary. 15 still in the military in local positions.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow.

“There’s still 2, and 3.”

Morgan purses his lips, rare crack in his demeanor.

“2 are MIA. Missing for more than three years. 3 are prisoners of war.”

“Since?” Jensen asks, astonished.

“From two months ranging to four years.”

 _The fuck_ —

“It not like in the movies, Ackles. You know that. Sometimes there’s no team to go back. Sometimes we completely lose the trace of our own, and as hard as we try, we never find it. And, sometimes, it’s necessary.”

“Necessary?” Jensen asks, feeling like a kid pointing to things, waiting to be told what they are.

Morgan shrugs. “In some cases, you gain more by assuming the weak position.”

It hits Jensen right in the gut, how Morgan is so matter-of-fact about it. But Jensen doesn’t say anything—at least, not about this.

“I’m assuming you’re not giving me these statistics just to talk military strategy.”

“No,” the colonel replies, almost smiling. Sometimes Jensen gets why Morgan and Jared get on so well—they’re both just a tad crazy. “I gave it to you so you get you’re not a special snowflake.”

How wonderful to hear.

“Thank you?”

“Don’t thank me,” Morgan says, completely ignoring the sarcasm Jensen infused into those words. “Grab your balls and stand by your decision.”

And Jensen wants to, he hates with every fiber of his being that he’s so goddamn weak.

“I wish it were that easy.”

It’s an admission.

He’s immediately ashamed of it. Jared’s right. Forward, no excuses.

But Morgan surprises him.

“Ackles, it ain’t easy. And that’s not even talking about Padalecki.”

“He thinks—”

“Whatever he thinks,” the colonel interrupts, “that’s his own shit talking.” He inhales, leans back on the chair. He doesn’t look very happy to be drawn into a prolonged conversation, but nonetheless continues. “Padalecki’s been super-soldier from the beginning. Youngest, top of his class, top of everything he could be. Except, well, discipline. And that’s because this was the only thing that existed to him. He poured all his heart into his duty, and reached the point where he began to think that’s all there is. Ackles,” Morgan tries, with the intensity a child has trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, just by pushing, “the idiot filtered everything through what he could do as a soldier.”

“I—”

But Morgan continues, proving true the saying about brute force: if it isn’t working, you’re not applying enough of it.

“He never made plans for a wife—well, a husband and kids. He went headfirst into every mission, and cared very little if he was returning from it. Because that’s how he _mattered_ , that’s how he amounted to something more than his drunk daddy. That’s what Padalecki understood about _this_. That’s why he’s shit at real human interaction—he never fucking planned for it.”

It hurts, hearing about it. Because, despite the truth of what Morgan is saying about Jared, Jensen loves him.

“Now, I don’t know you as long as I do him,” Morgan continues. “But what I gathered about you is two things: one, that you’re a hell of soldier, and second, that you’d do anything for what you think important.”

“Well, what if I got it wrong?” Jensen goes off, forgetting chain of command, _everything_. “What if I fucked up my priorities?”

“Then, that’s what the fucking note’s for!”

Jensen throws an angry look at the numbers. Why did Morgan give this to him? He could just as well be the guy who gets captured voluntarily. If only he were willing to give more of himself to cause they’re fighting for. But he isn’t.

He wants to choose differently. And if he’s expecting Jared to deal with his own shit in order to have a relationship, Jensen, too, has to do it. This is his choice. This is who _he_  is. A man who would rather fight on the home front, fight for belonging to a family.

And he has to accept it.

It wasn’t Jared’s reaction that hurt—it was the truth in it, the one Jensen didn’t want to admit.

Amidst Jensen’s existential crisis, Morgan gets up to leave.

“Ackles,” he orders, and Jensen’s head raises instinctively. “There’s place for 16.”

“16…?”

He realizes as Morgan starts speaking.

“Open position in Logistics. Strategic planning.  It’s yours if you want it.”

The colonel waits for a response, an intelligent one, Jensen thinks, but he’s shit out of luck, because all Jensen can coherently string together is, “I’ll think about it.”

 

~

 

The future has a direction. That’s what Jensen understands from Morgan’s visit. And that’s more than he needed. The jumbled mess of thoughts becomes a path, winding, with pebbles and occasional cliffs—but tangible, walkable, without monsters at each twist, just shadows, figures that Jensen’s mind distorted to the extreme.

He aces his next two physical therapy sessions.

Grunting, swearing and generally feeling like he’ll never be able to run again without suffocating—but he does it. Day in, day out, he will build strength, and not only physically.

Jared shows up two days later, catches Jensen packing for an early release with the promise of self-monitored exercising. Jensen’s bargaining with Osric, of all people, to crash on the couch in his apartment, because he feels the apartment he shares with Jared is off-limits now.

It’s been a standstill with Jared—and Jensen doesn’t want to be the one to break it.

He thinks he shouldn’t be.

 Jensen knows what he has to do. He’s sure of it—until his gaze meets Jared’s, and amber and faded green melt together, rendering Jensen’s will malleable.

“Jay,” he breathes, forgetting that they aren’t alone.

Osric.

But Jared just looks at the kid. Apparently, he hasn’t lost his touch when it comes to silently intimidating people.

Chau leaves with a last look at Jensen, not saying anything.

Jared waits. Focuses his gaze on Jensen until he hears Osric’s footsteps fade.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing the idiot says, the words sandpaper-rough.

“Did your shrink tell you to say that?”

Jared smiles tentatively. “She told me it would be a promising beginning.”

He’s leaning on the door frame, arms crossed, biceps bulging under the sleeves of the plain white t-shirt he’s wearing. God, the asshole is just as charming and impressive as in their first meeting.

“What else did she tell you to say, Padalecki?”

“What I’m feeling.”

Jensen laughs bitterly. Some underwear and the toothpaste bear the brunt of his reaction as he throws them in his bag in unexpected anger.

“I thought that was pretty clear.”

“It’s—I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Jared steps closer. Jensen focuses on gathering the last of his belongings. “There’s some stuff I shouldn’t have said at all.”

It’s the pain with which Jared’s words are laced that makes Jensen raise his head and look at him.

It’s different. It’s not for himself.

Jared’s not caught at the edge of the precipice, where the past is waiting for him. He’s here, with Jensen. And he’s apologizing.

They haven’t changed. Not at all, really. What changed was their relationship—and deeper wounds came with it.

But he sees vulnerability in Jared’s face.

Jensen doesn’t know what else to do—he wants to reach out, touch Jared after almost a week not doing it, but he can’t, not now, not yet, not before Jared explains it to him. So he sits down on the bed, pushing the duffel bag to the pillow. It’s both a blessing and a curse when, a few seconds later, Jared joins him.

“I still don’t understand your decision,” Jared says, and, for a second time, Jensen notices the ragged quality Jared’s voice has.

He wants to ask. But he focuses on the more important thing.

“I know. But I expected you to support it.”

“There’s this part of me that wants to be in the field so bad, Jen—it’s—my hands, mybrain—they ache for that feeling again, for following that instinct.”

It’s more than Jared’s verbalized since he’d been denied permission to re-join the Alpha team. So Jensen listens, watches Jared’s features, to read between the few lines he’s being given.

“But…but there’s another part of me that tries to be here, with you.”

“The side that wakes up screaming?”

It’s shame that Jensen finds in Jared’s eyes.

Silence.

“Why?”

Jared knows what Jensen’s asking.

“Because you love me,” Jared answers simply. “And this is how _I_ know how to do it. Letting you live.”

And it’s clear that Jared hasn’t gotten through his head A) what _together_ means, and B) that Jensen’s a fully grown man who can make his own decisions.

It’s hard, because Jensen knows Jared’s sincere. He knows Jared’s trying. But neither of them can change the fact that Jared’s good in moments of pressure, bombs exploding, bullets flying—and shit at _normal._ Normal, for him, is nightmare after nightmare of things he did, things he didn’t, things he is, things he isn’t, misplaced guilt corroding the essence of who Jared wants to be, anger covering for it.

Normal for Jared means too much time to think.

And normal is exactly what Jensen’s proposing.

“But I’ll go to the shrink. I’ll run to Greenland and back if I need to, Jensen. I have no idea how, but I’m going to do it.”

Of course it would all come down to Jared logic.

Jensen wants to laugh.

It’s that simple.

It’s a choice.

And when Jensen puts his hand over Jared’s, covering Jared’s shaking fingers, he knows full well why he’s doing it.

“I hope you’ll say hi to the polar bears for me.”

 


End file.
